


XV. Teardrop

by notablyindigo



Series: The Better Half [15]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1880469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notablyindigo/pseuds/notablyindigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Above all, Joan Watson is a believer in second chances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	XV. Teardrop

**Author's Note:**

> Love, love is a verb.  
> Love is a doing word.  
> Feathers on my breath.  
> Gentle impulsion  
> Shakes me, makes me lighter.  
> Feathers on my breath.  
> \- ‘Teardrop’ (cover) by Jose Gonzalez

Above all, Joan Watson is a believer in second chances.

She puts the finishing touches on the tea sachet she’s made, and takes a step back to evaluate her handiwork. News on the grapevine was that Sherlock had a bit of a cold. To quote Marcus’s text from the previous evening, Sherlock had come into the precinct to see Captain Gregson, congested beyond comprehension and looking like he’d been half-drowned in the Hudson, so Joan had decided to make him his own supply of her mother’s curative herbal tea mix. 

She smoothes the decorative twine she’s tied around the canister, trying to get it to lay flat against the lid. Most of the time, she wouldn’t bother with wrapping and packaging—this is Sherlock, after all—but something about this makes her feel the need for elevated presentation. It’s a gift, yes. But it’s also a peace offering. 

Contrary to her expectations, there had been complete radio silence from the brownstone after she’d moved out at the end of April. Of course, she’d known that there would be some awkwardness between them at first. There was no way to remove herself from their domestic environment without it serving as commentary on their working and personal relationships. But she’d thought, given time, that she could expect things to go back to normal. They were still partners, after all.

Except that it had been almost a month already without so much as a hello or an unsolicited security consultation (Sherlock’s term for a good old-fashioned B&E). She examined her front locks daily for signs of picking, even going so far as to seek Alfredo’s expert opinion, but never found any evidence of tampering 

Joan wants to chalk it up to personal growth and the development, at long last, of an interest in respecting her boundaries. But, then again, she knows better: the Sherlock she knows would never be so mature. 

She’d intended to wait for Sherlock to contact her, figuring that it was important for them to both have a little space in which to adjust to the change of living separately. But then Marcus began referring to cases she didn’t recognize as if she ought to, and Joan knew that something was the matter.

She hadn’t meant to be the first one to wave the white flag, the first to attempt to make amends. Rather, her initial reaction when she’d found out that Sherlock was taking cases without her had been to be angry. She’d ranted about it to Marcus for the better part of their weekly run, had rehearsed all sorts of speeches in her head, and had, as recently as the previous evening, been ready to confront him in person.

Except then she’d found out he was sick. And there’s nothing quite so pathetic as Sherlock when he’s sick.

She still has every intention of reading him the riot act, albeit a modified one, and she reviews her talking points as she packs the tea into her purse and locates her keys.

I moved out of the apartment, not out of our relationship. You think I stayed in Park Slope because I like dodging strollers and yoga moms on the sidewalk? 

As much as she’s tired of playing custodian to Sherlock’s feelings, she wants to keep it light. This is meant to be a reconciliation, after all. Still, she thinks as she sets off toward the brownstone, they’re long overdue for a really honest talk. The thing about Sherlock Holmes is that he can be impossible to talk to, always interrupting or willfully misinterpreting. Joan recalls their conversation in Arthur West’s apartment, all her carefully prepared words about orbits and gravity hitting Sherlock with all the traction of water on resin. She remembers Sherlock telling her how much he failed to notice about Irene, how much their relationship warped his perceptions. If Moriarty was his blindspot, then what is Joan? 

She’s at the brownstone now, taking the steps to the front door. She sucks in a deep breath, gives the doorbell a sharp press with her thumb, and takes a last-minute account of the things she wants to say.

But the words vaporize on her tongue when the door is opened not by Sherlock, but by a leggy blonde girl. One of the Lynch twins Sherlock used to experiment with, she remembers.

"Hi," she says, hunting her mind for the woman’s name and not finding it. "Is Sherlock here?" The woman’s mouth twists to the side, eyebrows furrowing somewhat.

"Watson, right?" she asks. "Sherlock said you’d be by." She steps out of the doorway back into the brownstone. "Come on in." 

Joan steps into the foyer and stops cold.

She’s looking at the library, or at least she should be, but instead she’s greeted by an empty space, dark wood bookshelves standing vacant on either side of the fireplace. The sofas, the desks, the lock wall, Angus. All gone.

Joan turns and stares incredulously at the twin, who is flipping through a small pile of letters on the table in the entry. 

"What…where is everything? Where’s Sherlock?" she asks. The twin pushes her glasses up onto her head and holds out a small envelope with Joan’s name on it in Sherlock’s block printing. Joan accepts it numbly, flips it open, and scans the note.

I’ve accepted a position with MI-6, it reads. I hope you won’t mind that I’ve left Clyde in your care. No forwarding address, no further explanation, no nothing. He hadn’t even signed the damn thing.

"This has to be a joke," Joan says, a tremor creeping into her voice, but the Lynch twin shakes her head.

"He was out of here yesterday," she says, walking into the kitchen where Joan can now see Clyde’s terrarium sitting on the dining table. "Asked me to find a new tenant and keep an eye on the place." Joan follows her, disoriented by how small the place looks all hollowed out like this. The twin gives Joan an apologetic smile as she hands her the terrarium. Inside, Clyde is making slow progress towards a fresh lettuce leaf in the far corner of the tank.

"So he’s left the country," Joan says, hefting the tank into a more comfortable carrying position. The Lynch twin nods. Joan feels like her stomach has turned to ice.

"His flight for London left this morning," she says. "I can let you know when he sends me his new mailing address," she offers, but Joan is already heading towards the front door. 

"No thanks," she says, "I don’t need it."

She knows where to find him. But that doesn’t matter.

Joan Watson is a believer in second chances. Third and fourth chances are a different story.


End file.
